


Forever Feels Like Home

by FadedSepia



Series: Sep's 2020 Commission Run [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Avengers (2012), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilt, Hospitalization, M/M, Phil Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23669020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FadedSepia/pseuds/FadedSepia
Summary: “He’s still here, Clint.” Natasha squeezed, but she had to pull away eventually. “You both are.”The access panel slid closed, and Clint was left in the muted silence of his own personal hell.⇒‡⇐Clint struggles with guilt after the Battle of New York; Natasha and Steve do what they can.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Sep's 2020 Commission Run [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1693291
Comments: 17
Kudos: 93





	Forever Feels Like Home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weepingnaiad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingnaiad/gifts).



> ⇒‡⇐
> 
> A wonderfully fun (to write, at least) commission that I got to do for WeepingNaiad based on the prompt, _“We don’t have to do this right now.”_ The fact that it’s Phlint just made it even better. I hope it’s everything you wanted!
> 
> With endless gratitude to ElloPoppet for beta-reading this and wrangling my words into something presentable.
> 
> ⇒‡⇐

⇒‡⇐

Nicholas Joseph Fury was a lying rat-bastard, and Clint Barton was going to pin him to the wall by his stupid trailing coat-tails one of these days. Not _today_ – later – but soon, and with a righteous vengeance.

Or maybe he was going to hug the man. For building a good team. For his quick, ever-duplicitous thinking. For sending Hawkeye off, primed and ready to kill on command, _without_ telling Clint that Helen Cho and her medical genius were aboard their particular helicarrier that day.

_No._

No, Clint was going to punch the man the next chance he had for _that_ lapse in Fury’s judgement. Then Clint was going to hug the shit out of him, and that would probably be even worse as far as terrorizing SHIELD’S director went.

Fury had made the call to feed them a load of bullshit, yes, but he’d made a second call that day and – even if Clint never saw anything but the inside of a cell for the rest of his life – he was going to spend every one of his days thanking the man. Unless he _did_ get out.

In that case, Clint would be spending every minute he had left waiting in the pleather and bent aluminium chair by Phil Coulson’s bedside.

Because Nick Fury might be a smug, manipulative fuckhead, but – thanks to him – Phil was alive.

Not aware. Not awake. But alive.

Clint pressed his finger to the screen of the tiny mobile ‘Tasha had managed to sneak into his observation room, zooming in on the live feed as closely as he could. He traced Phil’s hairline, trying to keep his gaze on Phil’s face; to stop his eyes from tracing the tubes keeping Phillip J. Coulson alive, the wires monitoring his vitals, the panoply of white and silver machines struggling to rebuild the pieces of him that should never have been broken.

There was a drop of water distorting the image. Clint swiped his thumb over it, but a second droplet splashed onto the screen a moment later.

Clint lifted the phone higher; that fixed it. Things were still blurred at the edges, but he could mostly ignore that, just to sit here tucked into his corner as he watched the steady rising and falling of Phil’s chest, mechanically precise.

_For now._

Only for now. Dr. Cho was a genius after all; Phil had always said so, and- Phil had always said so. Would keep saying so when he woke up. _When_. Not _if._

The slot on his door grated as the tiny access hatch slid to the side. Heedless of the presumed danger that had put Clint into this cell, a familiar black-gloved hand slipped through, palm up and fingers extended.

“The loop’s about to run out. You need to get to the bed.”

He dropped the phone into Natasha’s palm. “Thanks, ‘Tash.”

She pulled her hand away, but it returned – empty – a moment later, fingers catching and curling around his own, still trembling just beyond the little door-slot. “He’s still here, Clint.” Natasha squeezed, but she had to pull away eventually. “You both are.”

The access panel slid closed, and Clint was left in the muted silence of his own personal hell. He couldn’t even hear the echo of Natasha’s heels from beyond the door.

Clint shuffled the half foot to the room’s built in bunk, stretching back out across it; face down, feigning sleep just as he had been when his partner had arrived and slipped the phone in twelve minutes earlier. He pillowed his head on his arms, scrubbing at the lingering dampness on his cheeks as he tried to resettle. It wasn’t like he didn’t _deserve_ to be here, no matter how Clint might ache to be elsewhere.

⇒‡⇐

Natasha pulled both legs up to cross them where she sat on the break-room sofa, elbows resting on her knees. She was still too sore – too damn tired – to argue, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t put her best efforts into persuasion. At least Rogers was being a little more reasonable than Stark. Not that she could blame him; most people couldn’t have _survived_ falling from space, let alone be expected to think rationally when they did. It only meant that trying to make a case on Clint’s behalf wasn’t going to go _well_ where Tony was concerned, not for a while. Bruce was tacitly on board with his release, and Thor had said outright that Clint should be _lauded_ for breaking the control.

If she could just sway the man staring back at her from the corner, Natasha knew they’d be green. Protocol be damned; nobody up the chain was going to shoot down _Captain America_ without some consideration for whatever he was petitioning, not after last week. “I know him, Steve. He’s himself again; he’s not a danger to anyone that isn’t an enemy.”

“You’re sure about that?” Steve’s lips thinned as he snorted softly out of his nose. He raised a hand, waving gently in the direction of her face. “Because the split lip and that _impressive_ shiner say otherwise.”

“He was pulling his punches.” _Somewhat,_ at least; Clint had _only_ blacked her eye; a minor thing, really. He could have done far worse, if he’d been trying. Though, maybe Natasha should have waited to stop using colour-corrector until _after_ the dark cast had started to at least tinge green. “I could tell. Clint was fighting it.”

“And you think – what? – a good right hook to the head and now he’s _fine?”_

“Didn’t you ever have anyone you trusted implicitly? Hell or high water?” The words tripped out of her mouth because they weren’t exactly hers, and Natasha swallowed thickly. “That’s… Clint’s thing, more than mine.”

Thinking about her partner – who ought to have been here leaning into her shoulder if he wasn’t at Coulson’s bedside – Natasha looked down into her lap. The silence lengthened in the small break-room, bubbling up, thick in the air.

Steve clicked his tongue behind her, then mumbled, “end of the line…”

“Pardon?”

Steve pushed off from his lean against the wall, hands slipping into the pockets of his jeans. He resettled to look out the window as he answered, “I… had a friend that used to say that. ‘ _With ya ‘til the end of the line.’”_

Natasha never met anyone without researching them, if she could help it. She had a feeling for who it might be, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t push. “And this friend? You were close?”

“Like family.” Arms crossed over his chest, Steve scuffed his toe into the baseboard. “Gone now; I guess they all are.”

“But you understand?”

“Agent Romanov-” Steve’s voice was heavy with exasperation as she interrupted.

“Just Natasha.”

He offered one of his side-tilted nods as he left the window. Steve sat at the opposite end of the couch, rigid as he propped back into the corner. “Natasha then… It’s not that I don’t _understand.”_

“But?”

“Releasing him? After three days?”

Natasha sucked in a breath, ready to rebut him, but Steve was already talking again.

“Yes – I know he _seemed_ fine after – and I’ll be the first to admit that we needed him, that he helped me – all of us – in that fight, but…” The half-haunted smile on Steve’s face was at odds with his words. “To be frank, Agent Barton- Hawkeye _agreed_ to let us put him in that cell. He didn’t even argue.”

Natasha should have known better than to think that Clint would make any pleas on his own behalf. “That doesn’t mean that’s where he belongs, only that he thinks he _deserves_ to be there.”

“Might be because he _attacked_ us.” Steve didn’t seem eager to do it, and Natasha certainly hadn’t expected him to reach over to pat her knee. “Or because he couldn’t stop from going after you?”

Clint’s reasoning was – sadly – more complicated than that. With the number of times they’d struck or shot each other just in practice, Clint wasn’t going to be beating himself up over accidentally beating _her_ up; they’d gotten past that early on in their friendship. Still, Natasha was hesitant because the information wasn’t exactly hers to share; although – if it wasn’t obvious to Steve _yet,_ it would be if Clint did manage to get anywhere close to Phil again – if only because their particular _closeness_ was going to be on full display. Steve would either get used to it, or… Well, there wasn’t much of an option otherwise. Natasha nodded to herself; she could softball it, but she couldn’t leave it alone. “It was because of what happened to Agent Coulson.”

“That was Loki.” Steve had very expressive brows.

“Hawkeye was compromised, which took resources from the team, which gave Loki access to the carrier, which got Phil hurt; ergo, Phil’s condition is Hawkeye’s fault.” Natasha had to raise her hand to cut him off as Steve straightened beside her, preparing to argue against the chain of consequences she’d laid out. _Good sign._

“The logic of it doesn’t matter, not to Clint; Phil hasn’t been hospitalized on his own for much more than observation since…” Actually, thinking about it, Natasha couldn’t recall a single time, not since she’d come on.

Steve settled back into his corner of the couch, chin resting on steepled hands. “They’re close?”

In spite of her extensive experience with interrogations, Natasha struggled not to flinch under the weight of Steve’s gaze, to watch the minute expressions flitting behind his intense blue eyes. “More than close, Steve; more than _family.”_

Steve remained silent, face pensive even as he eventually looked away. When he did finally answer her, Steve Rogers was wistful, maybe morose; it was difficult to tell. “Must be nice, havin’ someone to count on like that.”

“It’s not easy, not in our line of work.” It certainly wasn’t something she had ever thought to hope for herself, but Natasha couldn’t imagine either of her teammates faring without the other; they were just meant to come as a pair.

“Mm.” Nodding, Steve unclasped his hands, sitting back into the corner, eyes still fixed in the middle distance ahead of him. He brushed his hair back over his ear – _A nervous habit?_ – then crossed his arms over his chest. “I can’t make any promises, Natasha.”

She could understand that, and, “That saves you from having to lie to me.”

“It does… and I wouldn’t want to.”

“Oh?” Natasha hadn’t meant to sound disbelieving; if _anyone_ was going to be low on a list of people likely to lie to her, it ought to be _Captain America,_ but… She was pretty sure this was pure, unvarnished Steve Rogers.

“You seem like a good person to have as a friend, Natasha, and I-” The man looking back at her sighed, blinking slowly, blue eyes skittering away from her own. “I could use a few of those.”

Natasha scooted closer, resettling herself on the middle cushion, knee bumping into Steve’s. She nudged him again, purposefully this time, waiting for him to glance back up. “I might be able to recommend one or two more. Just for consideration.”

Steve Rogers shook his head, but that didn’t stop his chuckle. “I don’t doubt it.”

⇒‡⇐

An array of hedgehogs must have crawled into his mouth while he’d been sleeping, scraping their way down Phil’s throat to jam tiny spines through every inch of his insides. The little shits were still in there – poking and beeping – stuttered trills echoing rhythmically through his brain. _No…_ That thought oozed, snagging on lingering quills because… _hedgehogs didn’t beep._ Phil’s mind stuttered, slogging through that thought as he struggled to wake. The hedgehogs scurried off, but the prickles remained, pushing out into a heavy ache that bloomed across his chest.

Phil opened his eyes onto a bright, throbbing expanse. He blinked, and the whiteness swam, finally resolving into what he could recognize as a ceiling. Phil closed his eyes and swallowed. The rasp in the back of his throat hadn’t cleared, dull pain spiking as he gulped at nothing; he’d been intubated, and for quite some time.

_Loki._

Phil couldn’t set a clear face to the name, only blue eyes, inky hair, and a burning pain in his chest. That image of long, dark hair was wholly unhelpful when someone leaned over him. Phil might have hit them, if his arms had been willing to obey that order.

“Welcome back.” Helen smiled sedately down at him, in that manner Phil had always thought of as _physician friendly._ He could never tell if she was pleased that her patient was well, or only that her research had panned out. _Didn’t matter;_ she was offering him a straw, and that straw brought water, so nothing else was of any importance, was it? _Almost nothing._

Speaking was off the table, but – if he strained – Phil could turn his head. _A bit._ He scanned the room beyond where Helen sat at his bedside, but none of the vague blurs coalesced into anything remotely human-shaped, certainly nothing resembling the man he’d been hoping to see. Even the slight movement of his own hand hurt, but Phil couldn’t give voice to the question otherwise. He crooked his ring and pinky fingers in, leaving the others and his thumb extended, tapping _H_ against the bedding.

Helen Cho set her hand over his, smile dropping away as she nodded. “We’re working on that.”

 _Working?_ His hand clenched in the bedding, Phil strained to roll over, to push himself up out of bed because – clearly – no one was _working_ hard enough if Clint wasn't back yet; if he was still out there, missing or-

“You need to rest.” Helen’s press on his shoulder might as well have been a two-tonne weight, for as well as it pinned him down.

Phil shook his head, blinking away heat that skittered from his eyes to slip over his cheeks and ears. In this moment, he needed to _know,_ to get answers that Helen wasn’t giving to him. The dull pulse of pain spread upwards, bubbling up to Phil’s throat as – somewhere behind the doctor – a door whooshed open.

“He’s awake?”

_Natasha!_

Releasing his arm, Helen stood, turning to address the woman walking up behind her. “Just now.” Her voice dropped, probably hoping he wouldn’t hear. “Better that he hears it from you.”

 _Hears what?!_ Phil was breathing too quickly; the pulsing soreness writhed, until it was a true pain, like taking a knife to his ribs. The chirping picked up again, shrill in his ear, maddening until Natasha grasped his hand.

“He’s fine, Phil.” She squeezed, bending over him until her lips were pressed to his hairline. “Clint’s safe.” Natasha leaned back, eyes wet as she looked down at him. “We got Clint back and he’s safe; I promise.”

‘ _Where?’_ Phil could form the words, even though he couldn’t say them, and Natasha had known him long enough to read the question slipping mutely past his lips.

“We’re trying to get him down here, Phil, but you need to rest.”

That didn’t answer his question, and Natasha being evasive never boded well.

Phil tugged at her fingers, head shaking, but she only lifted her other hand to rub his forehead. “You need to focus on recovering.” The single tell ‘Tasha gave was a brief flick of her eyes to the side, too late for him to protest. Helen had upped the sedative, and Phil’s tenuous grip on consciousness was already slipping, snatched away in a blur of crimson hair and worried green eyes.

⇒‡⇐

“Is this necessary?” When Natasha had said she’d handle things, this wasn’t the outcome Clint had hoped for.

“To my mind? No.” Steve fidgeted beside him in the lift-car, right hand on left wrist in front of him. It left the both of them standing in a similar position, though – at least for Rogers – it was by choice. “This wasn’t my decision, Agent Barton, but I can only throw my weight around so much.”

Even with all the shit he was trying to manage, Clint could admit that was pretty damn funny. “Isn’t throwing your thing?”

“Guess I found my limit.” Steve Rogers didn’t seem to be one for laughing in the face of misery quite so quickly as Clint was prone to do. In fact, at the moment, Rogers seemed genuinely apologetic as he looked over to him. “The agreement was that someone had to be with you – me, Tony, or Hulk – but – well – Stark’s weird about germs, and Hulk’s out because this place has low ceilings.”

“And a weight limit probably.”

“Right.” Steve’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder, pulling Clint to a stop and turning him halfway around. He bit into his lip, eyes flicking down to Clint’s manacled hands before he spoke. “Look, I just… Natasha said you’d – um – seen him, but Agent Coulson is still in rough shape.”

“Yeah… yeah.” It was easier to drop his eyes to the floor than to keep looking up at their ostensible team captain.

“Hawkeye. I’m not going to sugarcoat it; it’s _bad.”_ Squeezing his arm lightly, Steve waited until Clint looked back up. “I’ll give you as much privacy as I can, but… You say what you need to say in there. I know Agent Coulson means _a lot_ to you. Sorry you’re stuck with me as your chaperone.”

“You’re not the worst choice, Steve.” Steve had either been quicker on the uptake than most of the people he met – because Clint didn’t really talk about it, and Phil was the subtlest man on the planet – or Natasha had let it slip. Clint wasn’t really upset over it, since the team would’ve found out soon anyway; Steve had just taken it surprisingly well, considering that their sort of thing had been an arrest-worthy offence for most of his life. “Besides, it’d cheer Phil up if he got checked on by _the_ Captain America.”

“Thank you, Clint.” Steve looked genuinely embarrassed, face pink above the light plaid of his collar. “Should I have put on the uniform?”

“Did they manage to get the smell out?”

Steve’s face pinching inward as he shook his head was enough of an answer, and that look of disgust was worth another brief giggle before the lift came to a stop and sent Clint’s heart slamming up into his throat. The elevator doors slid apart, opening onto a hallway that should have been empty. Clint wouldn’t have missed the woman standing to the side of the corridor; but – somehow – Natasha seemed _more_ noticeable in white, even in the blank, bright expanse of the medical wing.

“You’re not supposed to be here, Agent Romanov.”

Natasha offered Steve a Gallic shrug, lifting a finger to point at the camera mounted on the wall ahead of them. “Then it’s a very good thing I’m not, isn’t it, Captain Rogers?”

“I suppose it is. Might look strange, though; me talking to no one and all.” Steve pushed Clint gently forward, out of the car and into the hallway. “Good thing it’s just you and me, right Hawkeye?”

“Yeah… Yeah, right.”

Steve started walking – keeping Clint to his right – and Natasha fell into step on his left, hidden well enough by his sheer bulk that whatever program she was using to hide her presence from the cameras would have very little of her to remove. The few yards felt interminable, but then they were standing in front of the door, frosted glass giving little hint to what Clint knew waited on the other side.

“I can’t go any further.” Natasha leaned around Steve, who made a point of stepping back. The combination of his steering Clint by the grip of Steve’s hand on his arm and Natasha stepping forward brought Clint into an awkward hug with his best friend; her chin digging into his collarbone as she went on tiptoe, his shackled hands trapped between them as her arms wrapped tightly around him. They leaned in silence for a few breaths before Natasha stepped back, hand cupping his cheek. “I won’t be here when you come out.”

Clint nodded against her palm, but it was Steve who spoke, still standing between the two of them and the camera at the widest possible parade rest he could reasonably maintain. “You were never here to begin with.”

“Exactly.”

Something passed between the two of them; Clint couldn’t be sure what, but he wasn’t unhappy to see it. Natasha gave him a last squeeze, then slipped down the hallway, disappearing into the stairwell.

“Ready?”

Clint wasn’t, but it was nice of Steve to ask him. He turned back to face the door with a sharp nod.

Steve pressed his palm to the scanner beside the doors; there was a beep, and then they were opening.

⇒‡⇐

By his count, Phil had been awake a few times across the last three or so days. He couldn’t be certain; counting the number of saline bags might have worked in a civilian hospital, but not here. Helen Cho’s work with the cradle and wound grafts meant that Phil couldn’t even rely on his own rate of healing as a benchmark for time. But three of four days _felt_ right; one of the few things that did for the moment, aside from the comfort of slipping his way into a deception, even one as simple as feigning being unconscious.

Phil had decided not to bother letting anyone _know_ he was awake after that first morning; nobody could knock him out if they couldn’t confirm for certain that he was conscious. He understood _why,_ but he didn’t have to agree with the decision. _Or make it easy for them._ Natasha’s visit had made things crystal clear; someone had decided that Phil’s being unconscious was preferable to putting up with his inquiries. Although, if anybody had taken the time to actually answer him, he wouldn’t need to act like a menace, but even Helen was being tight-lipped about things, and Black Widow hadn’t ever come back.

The first trick to that, of course, was not reacting when the doors slid open, no matter who entered or what he heard. When the double doors at the opposite side of his room _whooshed_ apart, Phil relaxed down with his exhale. There were a few moments of listening to a double tread across the floor – one stride echoing like a march, the other rhythm less rigid – before the footfalls halted.

“You’ve got ten minutes.” Phil knew the voice, even if the tone behind it was one he’d never heard before. “Wish it was longer, but-”

“It’s enough, Steve.”

Phil could hide a lot of his reactions, but not this; his heart-rate lifted, and he tried to keep his hopes from doing the same.

The chair near his bedside scraped across the floor, and Phil imagined it being spun back and straddled. That thought, though, didn’t align with what he felt; a light brush of fingers against his cheek before two calloused hands gripped his own.

Phil blinked awake to the view of a tousled mess of blond hair. His voice failed him – choked by joy and disuse – but Phil turned, grasping at Clint’s hands.

Misty blue-grey eyes lifted to blink back at him. “Hey, P.J.”

“H-” That was all Phil could manage as far as words went, but he could lift his hand, brush his thumb across the wet track on a freckled cheek as he mouthed. _‘What is it?’_

“Just don’t like seeing you… like this…” Clint’s voice cracked, breath hitching as he trailed off.

“No…” It was frustrating, only being able to force out a syllable or two at a time; Phil could either try to gesture out tremulous signs or keep stroking Clint’s face, and that wasn’t a hard choice to make. “What’s wrong…?”

Clint shrugged, lifting both hands – _cuffed_ hands – to hold Phil’s. Clint pressed a kiss against his knuckles, careful of the IV needles taped to the back of his hand. “We don’t have to do this right now.”

‘ _We do.’_ Nobody had answered him for days, and now was as good a time as any; Clint was here, and Phil certainly wasn’t going anywhere. He brushed aside another tear, guilt-ridden but needing to know. “Tell… me?”

⇒‡⇐

Clint shook his head. This would’ve been so much easier if Phil could have spoken, if Clint could have looked _away;_ tucked his face against Phil’s shoulder or arm, even just closed his eyes. Instead, he was stuck looking at the man he loved lying there full of more needles than a pincushion; stuck trying not to focus on the wan, sallow skin, the dark circles beneath Phil’s tired blue eyes. “‘Cause ‘s my fault, babe… You’re here and-” Clint hiccoughed, shaking his head. “My fault…”

“No-” Phil made an attempt at sitting up to argue, but started coughing instead.

With his hands cuffed together from wrist to elbow, Clint felt helpless to do much more than give him space.

Steve appeared at Clint’s elbow, silent as he held out a glass of water with a straw. Once Phil managed to get a little down, Steve set the cup aside, retreating back to his position by the doors without a word.

Phil’s smile was sheepish, apologetic, his fingers shakily running over the days-old growth of stubble on Clint’s cheek. _‘Come here?’_

Clint stooped over him, hands on the bed-rail to keep from putting any weight on Phil or straining his injuries.

Phil tugged until Clint’s head was resting in the crook of his neck and shoulder. He couldn’t speak, but he could whisper, voice raspy and low against his ear. “Not your fault.”

“But-” It _was._ Clint had fucked up, let the enemy not just into their midst, but into his mind. He’d let Lo- He’d let _all_ of it happen, and Phil had been left vulnerable because of it. He’d needed someone to have his back, and Clint hadn’t been there because he’d-

Phil’s hand brushed down the back of his neck, steady, soothing. “We don’t lie…”

Clint could fill in the rest of that sentence from memory. _… not to each other._ Promises were hard to come by – hard to _keep_ – for either of them; that was one of the few he and Phil shared. Clint nodded and smushed his face into the fabric of Phil’s gown with a sniffle. “Can I say it’s good to see you?”

“Just don’t say that-” Phil’s tiny chuckle slid into a brief cough. “- I look good.”

Clint might have nodded as he kissed Phil’s cheek, but that didn’t mean he agreed.

**Author's Note:**

> ⇒‡⇐
> 
> I hope that hint of (pre-)Romanogers came through alright, WeepingNaiad. (I tried to keep it subtle.) Thank you again for the support!
> 
> [Hit me up here](https://fadedsepiascribbles.tumblr.com), [or over here!](https://twitter.com/fadedsepia)
> 
> ⇒‡⇐


End file.
